


It's not my fault, I'm not to blame

by Sitdowndrinktea



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Consent Issues, Despite the title this is not a songfic, Dubious Consent, M/M, Multiple Endings, Non-Consensual Touching, Sexual blackmail, UST of the worst kind, Victor Hugo's ghost is going to murder me in my sleep, boy howdy consent issues, nor does anyone burst into song, ridiculously long third chapter
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-04
Updated: 2013-03-04
Packaged: 2017-12-04 07:13:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/707998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sitdowndrinktea/pseuds/Sitdowndrinktea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Madeleine is found out by Javert prior to the Champmathieu case. He is given an ultimatum, though neither choice bodes well for him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

There was no conceivable way that an upright, obstinate, duty-bound man like Javert would be blinded, however momentarily, by what he felt were banal desires. This was certainly not the time to start.

A small town like Montreuil-sur-mer was not a town to incite temptation. It was not without its imperfections and evils and trespassers of many forms, but a significant amount of time had passed since Javert had been assigned to the town, and he had yet to traipse through a scene that would successfully court him into vice and away from his patrols. No fetching whore caught his eye, contraband and other illegally collected goods never incited him to be avaricious, and snuff would remain his only true pleasure, if he had any say in the matter. Indeed, he may not have been religious in the clerical sense, but he was, arguably, no less virtuous than one who contained themselves in a cloister. He was a proud man, both in his work and in his chastity.

But apparently, he had been sent a challenge in the form of Monsieur Madeleine.

At first, Javert had called into question Madeleine's charity and good works. It all seemed frivolous, and was more indicative of someone wracked with guilt and with something to hide. Ordained by the king or not, Javert found himself wondering why the mayor would not, or perhaps could not, temper his mercy with justice. He avoided the man whenever and wherever he could and his respect for the mayor was begrudging.

However, there came a time where as his respect for the mayor solidified, so did two other things: one was his suspicions that Madeleine was at one time the convict, Jean Valjean, though these suspicions became more subdued with his growing consideration for the mayor's own form of goodness. The other was a strange desire Javert had had no prior allegiance with.

It seemed that the mayor had planted an odd need in Javert to possess him.

It was not his fault. This desire could not have been formed of his own accord. Perhaps this was how the townsfolk felt, Javert had first wondered, and this was why the mayor had made himself out to be someone worth a large audience: he was a man who impelled those to see him the way he wanted them to.

Soon after came dreams and other wants. He finally had to concede, even if it was only to himself, that he didn't just admire the mayor, he was fascinated by him the same way one would be fascinated by a distant, unknowing beloved. This was something that required a vast amount of scrutinizing. He began to study the man like a war map, at first strategizing how the mayor might respond if Javert were to request for a formal meeting or to ask for the budget to allocate more to local law enforcement. He wondered how the mayor might respond personally to an informal greeting—a tip of the hat bidding him a good morning, for instance. Strategizing soon became fantasizing, and Javert wondered how the mayor would physically respond if he gripped his bicep to gain his attention, how he would color if he maneuvered his jaw a certain way with a tap or stroke of his fingers, how the mayor would tilt his head when Javert's face neared his own...

Javert had never been chained to a hobby or familiar pastime prior to his infatuation with the mayor, especially one that was not required of him or delegated to him by some superior. Even Monsieur Madeleine, also of few hobbies, was known to find comfort in books and walks in the fields when he wasn't making the town and its residents his priority, but he wasn’t entirely duty-bound, so perhaps such things came easier to him. This hobby of Javert's was a great novelty, and yet it did not seem to consume or make his police duties less efficient. His virtue, in a sense, remained intact like a rope of many fibers. He would not be brought down so easily, or so he thought.

The night Fantine and Bamatabois had their scuffle, and Madeleine's infinite mercy took Fantine out of the arms of the law rekindled Javert's suspicions, though the prior affair with Fauchelevent proved damning as well. He sent in a letter to the Prefecture in Paris, and once he received his response, set off to see the mayor and put the matter to rest. Javert knew his actions called for a just response. He hoped the mayor would be just in this matter as he wanted him to be. If the mayor did agree to his resignation, Javert could continue to be sure of how the world worked and how he functioned as a human being. Perhaps, he thought, he could till the ground and become a farmer, partake in honest work and not be spirited away by temptation.

***

Out of respect, Javert bowed his head. When Madeleine asked of him the reasons behind his visit, Javert made known his suspicions and mentioned the name Jean Valjean.

At this mentioning, he dared to lift his head slightly and saw that Madeleine's kind, yet stoic face—a face Javert had secretly yearned for and longed to respond to him—had grown ashen in color, his eyes as wide as a startled foal. It was the face of the guilt-ridden, of the hallowed found out to be mundane. His Monsieur le Maire had the perfect countenance of the criminal.

A triumphant stirring occurred below Javert's heart, but he would not allow himself to outwardly show it. Everything in him sang in victory—it was almost a form of relief. Immediately, he thought of a way to have what he so ardently tried to convince himself he did not want.

Hat still in hand, and cudgel under his arm, he stepped closer to Madeleine's desk.

"Monsieur le Maire," Javert began. "I am not entirely convinced of your current standing." He had, at this time, switched to the informal _tu_.

He noted that as Valjean responded, he was making a conscious effort to speak clearly, a definite attempt at masking his guilt. "Javert, you have received your response from the Prefecture, so therefore I cannot be the man you want.”

Javert allowed himself to smile at this. "Ah, but you are the man I want, and I am also a man of observation. I know the characteristics of the guilty. Your face is now without color; your eyes are wide, as if scoping out danger. Just now I could hear you swallow—your own throat betrays you."

He made his way closer to the desk. He entertained the possibility of stepping behind Valjean's chair and running his hands along the wide expanse of his shoulders, simultaneously subduing his own fears and challenging Valjean's magnificent strength. He would not allow himself such contact. Not yet, at least. He would only allow himself to reveal a lowering of his voice, a telling. "Such a look is very becoming of you."

At this, Valjean stood up from his desk, looking like a man just noticing a spring-based trap out in the woods only several paces away from where he walked. Javert nearly glided up to him, lessening their proximity in such a way as to be physically distracting. He hadn't planned to stand this close so soon, but he was quick to recover and placed the tip of his cudgel on Valjean's chest, pushing him back somewhat.

"I will admit that you are a man of great compassion, but unfair in how you distribute it," Javert began. His breathing had grown a shade heavier; it was clear he was not used to these sorts of intimations, but his self-restraint remained. Though he towered over Valjean, the latter was defiant in his own right. His gaze was unclouded—it was clear this desire was not reciprocated.

"I have always been just in my actions; it is a strength not easily cultivated. Perhaps it is time I showed compassion as well?"

Valjean placed his hand on the cudgel and began to turn it away from him as if a child had trained a wooden sword on him. "I demand you cease this nonsense. I will turn myself in and right this matter."

Javert again towered over him, but instead of placing his cudgel on Valjean's chest, he placed it with a sort of tenderness on the side of his neck. This allowed him to press himself blessedly closer to Valjean.

"You would allow yourself to be put back in chains when I offer you mercy? You would mock my offering?" Javert asked incredulously.

"I cannot allow an innocent man to suffer in my name,” Valjean responded.

"But you would allow your good works to go to ruin? You would prevent a woman from being reunited with her child—if indeed she is telling the truth?"

"Not if it meant the condemnation of one man to suffer in my stead."

Although Valjean had wavered in his speech before, his conviction had now been reinforced. The mercy Javert was offering was of no interest to him.

"What if I went in to testify on his behalf? I would be sure of his freedom, just as you can be of yours."

"And what then? What do you expect from me after you have returned from your testimony?"

Javert inwardly smiled at his prospects. "For you to retain your good status among the people, their adoration, your boundless charity, your peace of mind and that of the sickly mother expecting her child..."

The cudgel had never left the one side of Valjean's neck. Javert began to lift his other hand and place it with utmost restraint on the other side. His eyes glowed with a ferocious quality that had, up to that point, only been seen when he caught a criminal and was sure of their place in the world. He was sure at this moment Valjean's place was always within his sights.

"...And for you to be in my good graces. That is to say, in my company, when I desire it. You should know what I mean by that, when I say I desire your company? That you have placed in me a need for you, to know you?"

Valjean blanched. "I have done no such thing."

"I could beg to differ; I could not have made these needs so clear to you without your assistance. Now, which do you prefer? Would you prefer to bind yourself to the law, or to me?"

There was a tense silence. Valjean made no move to break away, opting instead to stare down his unfortunate salvation. Javert began to stroke the side of Valjean's neck with his thumb, as if to coax him to accept his strange form of compassion. He would let the choice be his. On one side-the cudgel: justice, fair in its distribution. A system Javert could be sure of. On the other side-benediction: a blessing that would burn as bright and hot as damnation. It would be new for both of them.

"I do ask one more thing of you," Javert continued.

Valjean answered him with silence.

"Whichever you choose, call me Monsieur Inspector."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *SPOILER ALERT* Valjean is really Robojean and punches Javert in the dick with a rocket. He escapes, but Javert recovers. “Lord let me find him,” he begins to sing. “That I may see him PULVERIZED BY A FUCKING METEOR SHOWER!!!!!” Meteors then proceed to fall all around and onto Robojean. All seems lost until Ponpon shows up in his car and runs over Javert and several other townspeople. Ponpon gets out and together with his mustachioed baby friend, slap the SHIT out of Javert. He is defeated. Robojean is helped into Ponpon’s car and they all drive away to Arras. “Thank you Ponpon-chan,” he whispers as he slips into unconsciousness. Squeedly 90s guitar music starts up and the credits roll. Everything was part of an episode of an Arm Joe shonen anime adaptation. Sorry. *END SPOILER ALERT*
> 
> This was originally posted on the kink meme, edited and proofread for AO3. The prompt called for Frollo!Javert, more specifically to have Javert go all “crazy repressed boner virgin Frollo” on Madeleine upon finding out he’s Valjean. I am so sorry for all of this.


	2. Chapter 2

"Monsieur Inspector," Valjean began, his voice as steady as a mountain. "I will serve as a witness on the defense and turn myself in. I bind myself to the law."

Javert did not hesitate in removing his hand or his cudgel from Valjean's person. He had been rejected, and this rejection allowed him to slip back to his old ways. He could go back to upholding the law with no distraction—his constant analyses of Valjean now rendered petty. In a sense, Javert was set free. He could go back to being sure of himself and his duties. 

His large hands held no resentment when arresting Valjean. There were no lingering or vulgar touches when he placed his hands on him. Javert handled him the way he did any convict; there was no reluctance in his hands, or his eyes, or in his triumphant frown. There wasn't even a pang of sorrow or longing in his wooden heart.

Valjean was placed in handcuffs and taken to a stagecoach headed for Arras. The worst part for Valjean was not the fact he would undoubtedly be in prison for the rest of his life, but the journey to the trial. Several times he was sure Javert meant to set upon him. In light of this possibility his old convict ways—the ones that calculated an escape route in every conceivable corner of the stagecoach and beyond—came back as if from a dormant sleep. He thought, somehow with regret, that he could physically subdue the inspector very easily. Valjean deigned not to, he would be a free man even while he was a hostage to the law.

The appearance of the once respected mayor in handcuffs came as a great shock to everyone in the courtroom, but concrete evidence served to negate any and all disbelief, except for maybe Champmathieu, who was stricken bewildered by everything related to this case. Valjean was sent away to Toulon and assigned the number 9430, and given the red frock, and the green cap. His place in the world was sealed.

Javert was satisfied with the settlement. So much so, he allowed himself an extra pinch of snuff upon arriving back to Montreuil-sur-mer. There was no more Valjean to be had, and he could go back to being the rigid inspector who had never before been plagued with silly desires. Not even his dreams betrayed him with his prior wants. 

Montreuil-sur-mer fell into ruin, and a transfer to Paris followed. A convict fell into the water, and he transferred to Paris soon after, but not before saving a loveless little girl. Javert had a need to contain once again, but this need was not seasoned with carnality. His insistence on pursuing his convict was not based on ulterior motive, only duty. His disappointment was not based on rejection, only failure to apprehend and send back to prison.

Valjean, however, was uneasy for two reasons: the first for the possibility of being sent back to Toulon a third time, and the second for the possibility of being propositioned again. He would dream of being framed by a large shadow with large hands, and they would settle upon his neck as if they were an iron collar, and every time they set upon him they would clang, as if they were being hammered in place. Somehow, the hands remained gentle, almost considerate, and Valjean would wake with the feeling that he had been damned. Then the day would wear on, and his heart became filled with thanksgiving. Not once did he regret his decision—not once did his mind drift off and wonder what it would have been like had he agreed to such degradation of his soul. There would be days in Toulon, in the convent, even when he had been buried alive when he felt more freedom than what he had felt in his office that one day, when he had been offered the best of justice and the worst of mercy. For the rest of his life, he never doubted choosing the best of justice.  
Their paths still crossed, but only Valjean was rendered shaken and churned and tossed about internally by their meetings. At the barricades, he set the inspector free once again, and looked him in the eye the way he did back in 1823, with a surety that his actions were correct. Javert would let him be, and perhaps this time, he wondered if the dreams would finally be sent away like a convict in a wagon, sent away as if it was to be adorned with a red frock and a green cap and locked away forever and ever. 

The great fear returned upon his exit from the sewers, Marius on his back. Javert's hands on his filthy shoulders and his cudgel in his mouth dredged up memories that by now Valjean wanted so badly pulverized and reduced to sand blown far by the wind. The carriage ride to M. Gillenormand and back to Rue de l'Homme Arme was a somber one for both Valjean and Javert. The latter wanted to set upon the former, and the former knew of the possibility of being set upon. Only Valjean was not terribly sure if it would be for reasons of incarceration. All he wanted was peace. 

When Valjean returned to find the carriage gone, his heart sang with something akin to gladness. The gladness would be subdued upon finding out Javert had done away with himself—despite everything, he never wished him such harm, even when he thought him mad—but the end of his horrid dreams was still something of a gift. Not a large one, more like temporary one, like a small child trying to pass off a clump of weeds and nettles to its mother as if it were a splendid bouquet—it would die off and finally be forgotten. 

As for the inspector, when he stood above the Seine, poised to purge his wooden heart made into cinder into the water below, he never revisited those moments back in Montreuil-sur-mer, though he did wonder, during his fall, about the many forms of mercy he had chanced to miss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No silly author's notes this time. Any and all feedback is appreciated.


	3. Chapter 3

"Monsieur Inspector," Valjean began, his voice turning flimsy as balsa wood. "I will remain here as mayor and tend to my current responsibilities. I...bind myself to you."

At this proclamation, Javert allowed himself to smile. Valjean never ceased his rigid stance, though his voice betrayed his courage only moments before. However, he could not suppress a shudder when the cudgel slid from his neck with a strange intimacy. The other hand—the one offering a mockery of a benediction—slid to the back of his neck. Javert leaned down, the hair covering his brow brushing against Valjean's forehead.

"Then let me bind myself to you," he said.

With that, he pressed his lips to Valjean's. Nothing more came about from the kiss than its intention. It was meant to seal Valjean's decision, and nothing more. Nevertheless, the chastity of it served to plunge Valjean into a cold hopelessness he hadn't felt in a long time. Javert, however, felt a great warmth he had never felt before. To one man, it was condemnation, and to another, it was a sweet promise. Both shuddered at the contact.

When Javert pulled back, his stance was as rigid as ever, so much so it looked like a parody. They had returned to being just the mayor and the inspector. If the housekeeper or anyone else walked in, there would have been no indication that they were contracted to be lovers now.

"I will return within a day's time. Until then, Monsieur le Maire," Javert said in business-like fashion. He tipped his hat cordially, and somehow in that gesture, he caused Valjean to flush with shame and regret.

Valjean would not, could not move until he heard measured footsteps fade away. At the onset of silence, he wanted to tear himself away from his office, tear himself from his skin if he could, and shout from all the rooftops in the world that he was Jean Valjean, a thief.

An image came to him unbidden: a joyous Fantine, her arms outstretched, her mouth stretched open in rapture and delight at the sight of her child. No, he could not do this.

***

The rest of the day, Valjean spent it as if he had not been found out as a convict. He carried out his false image as a reverent, honest man. He walked through the streets of Montreuil-sur-mer as Monsieur le Maire, M. Madeleine, Father Madeleine. He coveted the sounds of chirping birds, the laughter of the children and the visiting Savoyards, the adoring nods and wishes of the adults, every open door that revealed a quiet and intent landlady sweeping the dust out towards the streets, the graven faces of the beggars that glowed with gratitude once they were given alms. Valjean found he had a craving for liberty and prestige and love of the purest kind. Once in a while, he would vigorously rub his mouth with the back of his hand.

He spent the night in his room debating on ordering a tilbury and making his way to Arras. Champmathieu was on his way to becoming a free man, Javert would see to that, and the town would continue to be in good hands and prosper. Valjean had secured these two freedoms at the expense of his own, and before falling into an uneasy rest, he wanted to curse himself for not remaining adamant.

***

He dreamt that night he was walking through many narrow corridors with a great many doors. He passed by throngs of judges and lawyers until they began to fit together like bricks and mortar and block his way. He knew of a certain door that would lead him to where he had to go, but there were walls of people now, and so many doors to choose from.

Time went on indefinitely to the point Valjean was sure he had spent a good year without any sleep or sustenance just to find this door. Finally, a door handle shone brightly like a candle flame between two judges—he reached out and pulled it open.

Valjean had found the right courtroom, but everything had been plunged into darkness. The streetlamps from outside offered some light, but it was only enough to show him that there was no one there besides him. He cried out anyway.

“Release the accused! I am the man you seek!”

His cries sounded absorbed, like he had been stuffed into a barrel packed with cotton. Nothing and no one answered him.

He was startled awake when he felt two large hands close around his neck like a brace.

***

No one was in his room upon waking up. It was past dawn, but nowhere near noon. The housekeeper had yet to fetch him for his breakfast. Valjean felt as hopeless and condemned as he did the day before. He knew that by now Champmathieu had likely been set free.

He attempted to get through the rest of the day as if he did not have a tempest raging within. Again, he conducted his business and walked through the town wanting to covet all the joy he could from his usual pleasures, knowing that upon Javert’s return he would not feel as great an affinity towards everything. His walks wouldn’t be as invigorating, his smiles towards the residents not as genuine. Valjean briefly entertained the idea of hiding away in someone’s house, hiding in their attic, feeding on the scraps of food they left in their kitchen upon retiring to bed. He would leave them money in return for their hospitality. They would think a brownie had taken up in their house, and they would never realize how grateful their guest would be for their accommodations.

Such desperate thoughts appeal to reason when one is desperate.

***

By the day’s end, Valjean went to visit Fantine at the hospital. His spirits had brightened a tad, because earlier he had arranged a coach for Montfermeil. The child would be accounted for, and Valjean would give himself another day or so away from Javert. It would also give him time to think up more ways to avoid him.

Fantine glowed as if hope alone would make her healthy again. Upon being told that her dear Madeleine would be sending for a coach and bringing back Cosette personally, she clasped his hands in gratitude. Valjean could feel she had much strength left in her, more than enough to be able to see her daughter, and in that moment, his admiration for her grew. There was hope in him yet as well—Fantine, he thought, could be an ally. He wanted more than anything to secure her friendship, to no longer just see her as a martyr.

“My little Cosette would do well to receive you, Monsieur,” she said. “She will make a wonderful addition to the town. Everyone will take to her so well, she has that effect on people, you know.”

“I do not doubt it,” Valjean said.

“I think she would enjoy it if you made her one of those baubles the children enjoy so much, the ones with the coconut and straw.”

“That’s a grand idea; I’ve yet to come across a child who did not enjoy them.”

Fantine smiled and let out a tiny laugh. It was not enough to make her start coughing, but near the end of her laughter she let out a loud gasp, a frightened “ _Oh_!”

Valjean noticed her looking towards the door, and turned to see what had taken away her brief happiness.

In the darkness of the doorway stood Javert, his head uncovered and his hat in his hand. He walked up to them with authority, but when he spoke there was an odd tone to his voice.

“I was told that Monsieur le Maire would be here, and I wanted to speak to him before returning to my post.”

He had been speaking directly to Fantine, who was at a complete loss as to how to verbally respond to him. Her eyes were wide with apprehension. The last she had seen of Javert was at the police station—she had nearly prostrated herself before him, she had made an appeal that left nary a chip on his heart, she had placed his hand on her chest and he still couldn’t be provoked to offer mercy. Now, he stood before her bare-headed, speaking like a tiger trying to emulate a dove. His strange cordiality was lost on her, and she continued to grasp Valjean like a devout nun to her rosary.

Valjean made haste to prolong his visit.

“I have made arrangements to retrieve her child from Montfermeil,” he explained.

“When will you be leaving?”

“Tomorrow morning.”

“I request to come with you then.”

“No.”

The pause that followed sat heavy between the three of them. Valjean realized that his denial had sounded rather desperate, and was quick to follow Javert’s request, almost speaking over him. The inspector looked at him now as if he were a child letting slip a secret. His mouth pinched into a disdainful frown and his eyes were less soft. It was a familiar look.

“Monsieur le Maire, it would be best if you did not leave unaccompanied. A figure of authority would hasten this child’s retrieval,” Javert reasoned. “And if there are to be any troubles during the time we are there, you will need someone with the knowledge of handling such matters.”

He again turned to Fantine. “You would prefer your child come back unharmed, of course?”

The face Fantine made was almost one of anger. “Of course, monsieur. My suffering would have been in vain if my Cosette were to be harmed in any way.”

Fantine lessened her grip on Valjean. “Perhaps he would do well to make sure you and Cosette are safe.”

It took a great deal of effort on Valjean’s part not to look between the two of them with incredulity. Had she been well, she could have gone with them. He nearly wanted her to come anyway, poor health or not, and stopped himself from feeling betrayed.

“If I could add another word, Monsieur le Maire?” Javert requested.

“You may.”

“My accompaniment would not be a burden to the town; there are plenty of qualified men who could take over my post while I am on leave.”

Valjean nodded in agreement. “That I do not doubt.”

“Then I do not doubt that I will accompany you on this trip?”

“No,” and again Valjean was as malleable as balsa wood, “You need not doubt it.”

Javert bowed his head and upon lifting it acquired a strange smile. “Did you know that our mayor goes by many monikers?”

“Yes, I have,” Fantine replied with a slow, surmounting comfort. She was beginning to think that Javert had a heart made of ice, capable of melting, albeit slowly like a glacier. “At the factory, the women had taken to calling him a good bear. It is fitting, don’t you think?”

Valjean looked down, so he would not see if Javert agreed or not.

***

Javert had insisted on waiting for Valjean outside Fantine’s room, even though Valjean insisted he go back to his post. His insistence proved futile.

It gave him a little relief to know that the infirmary had been set up inside his own house, and that he would not have to walk any more than he had to with Javert. He did not intend to see him off like he would any other guest.

“My good bear,” Javert whispered with something akin to adoration. He bent low to press his lips against Valjean’s. Again, it was brief, but terrible. The kiss was like a low, rumbling thunder promising a muddled storm. Valjean reached out to grip Javert’s arms and keep him at a good distance from himself. For the moment, Javert had to comply, for the strength in Valjean’s arms prevented him from moving further.

“I thought of you while at Arras,” he said whilst seemingly unfazed by the grip on his arms. “I am pleased to know that you stayed here and thought it wise to wait for me. They took me for my word, and you and the other man are now free."

A bleary anger began to rise up within Valjean at those words. Javert twisted himself in such a way so that the grip was loosened and Valjean was kissed again before he could protest; the kiss lingered this time, though both sets of lips remained closed.

“What if I offered you a promotion?” Valjean offered when he pulled away.

“No.” Another kiss. This time, Javert’s lips parted and did not move away soon enough when Valjean wanted him to. Valjean leaned back instead, but each evasion was still met with some sort of fleeting touch or wandering mouth.

“The salary of a man in the police force is—

“No.”

The lips were becoming more insistent. Valjean couldn’t remember ever seeing a man of such age or standing kiss someone with such inexperienced earnestness. He continued to suggest the alternative.

“It is paltry, your salary; let me—

“ _No_.”

One of his lips became locked in a cage of teeth. He let out a small, pained sound, almost enough to alert someone. It was immediately released, but his mouth was set upon again, this time more gently, as if he were being offered an apology for the prior brusqueness.

“You’re practically _living_ at your desk. Let me make an arrangement that doesn’t entail giving myself over to you,” Valjean insisted with a growing desperation. “What I can’t offer in the way of pleasure, perhaps money can.”

“The debt you are in cannot be bought out with money,” Javert remarked.

“Please, Monsieur Inspector, you are an honest man,” Valjean pleaded. He thought, perhaps, that if he referred to Javert by his requested title, he could at least listen to his pleas.

“I was once under the impression you were too,” Javert answered. “And I still could be an honest man if you hadn’t done this to me.”

“Done what to you? I did not make you to pine for me this way.”

Javert let out a succession of breaths that indicated he was laughing in disbelief. “My good bear…”

The final kiss of the evening promised much in the way of hopelessness. It was like an extension of their first kiss, but with a surety that made Valjean feel there was no other possible option other than surrender. Again, their lips remained tightly pursed, but the harshness of it made the inside of Valjean’s mouth press painfully against his teeth. A hand followed to run along the side of his face after they pulled away. Valjean was quick to grab his wrist and push it away from him, but the amount of strength used was more appropriate for a child that demanded to be constantly touched, and not a man who demanded more than that. It was still more than enough to restrain Javert.

“You are a man of great strength, yet you restrain yourself,” Javert observed.

“There’s no sense in striking down someone who is only confused about what they want.”

Javert took that as an insult and straightened up. “I am not confused; I am perfectly aware of what I want and why.”

“Then explain this what and why.”

Javert looked at him knowingly, as if he felt that he was being lied to. He did not answer him with words, and instead he shook his head slowly. “I will see you tomorrow, Monsieur le Maire.”

He did not leave right away. Valjean felt as if he was being clung to; he nodded his head in farewell and expected that to be enough. When it wasn’t, he began to move away from the entrance.

“Your hair, Monsieur le Maire,” Javert said. “It has gotten grayer since I saw you the day before.”

By this time, Valjean had his back turned to him and did his utmost to keep any contempt out of his voice. “Goodnight, Monsieur Inspector.”

***

“I do not see how I could suddenly incite you to change your ways, much less incite you to want me,” Valjean started once they were settled in the stagecoach the next day.

The only other words they had spoken to each other that day consisted of a pithy ‘good morning.’ After that, neither of them said a word to each other for a quarter of an hour.

“You have not incited me to change my very being,” Javert countered. “I do not cease to be just towards those who deserve justice. Those who have broken the law face the law. You are the only one I have extended gratuitous mercy towards. Before you, I aimed to be irreproachable, and I still do.”

They were sitting side-by-side, though neither of them was sitting so close as to accidently brush against each other. They did not so much as make eye contact. Valjean set immediately about creating a toy out of a coconut and straw, something for Cosette to content herself with on the ride back.

“As for wanting you, I have yet to receive an explanation.”

Valjean finally stopped in his task and turned to look at Javert. The latter still looked away from him, so that only his side profile could be seen. It was a wonder how a man who he felt to be so unsure in his feelings still held himself with pride.

“I don’t see myself as a man who invites such advances. I have no experience in such matters, nor would I know where to begin,” Valjean said.

At this, Javert turned to him, a mixture of disbelief and delight fixed in his gaze. “You know nothing of what you are capable of? You know nothing in the way of…”

“Please, stop.”

Javert looked down at his companion’s hands. He was fumbling with the straw and becoming visibly irritated. “I do not understand what you see in me that is so desirable. Of all the things I can provide you with—money, status, recommendations—it is _me_ you would find most preferable?”

Their tones remained hushed and unhurried, belying the unfortunate intimacy of the conversation. Valjean abandoned the coconut and straw, placing it between him and Javert on the bench, as if it could act as a barrier.

“Regardless of why you pursue me, I do not truly consider this mercy. You would do well to take advantage of something else I am capable of providing you. I have known you to be a man of honor, a man whose goodness was not kind, but sure. You fill me with terror the way you feel for me, but I have also been grateful for your services, and I know you are still capable of good, even now.”

Valjean was choosing his words carefully, as if Javert’s steadfastness in his desire to have Valjean was the same as a wild horse poised to trample him underfoot. He did not want to act with violence towards a man he had only wanted to avoid.

“You would try to be merciful, so then let me try to be just. You have only done the right things, so do not let this agreement we have made tamper with who you are. Let me pay you back for your services some other way.”

Javert seemed to consider this and appeared to listen to Valjean. His face, though, was unreadable. Valjean did not know how he would answer, and he could only hope that his answer was considerate. He could see that his brows were drawn together, and his thin mouth was pinched even thinner with contempt or perhaps thoughtfulness. His eyes were thankfully clear and did not betray any other intent. It was noticeable from the way he began to speak that Javert’s reply would also be carefully constructed.

“The day before last, when I came to tell you how I denounced you, I was also planning on resigning,” Javert began. He looked intently at Valjean, with a gaze that demanded not to be broken. “I had hoped that you would have agreed to it; that you were somehow capable of being just and not just being kind. You are clearly knowledgeable of the code of criminal law and the authority of the various branches of police, and used such knowledge to rightly place the woman in your care, did you not? I thought that once I had explained my case, you would agree that a figure of authority such as yourself was wronged by my prior actions and then you would rightly place me out of a job. I figured that I would go into the country and become a farmer.”

Valjean did not show any outward signs of anxiety or uneasiness. He listened attentively to Javert, wondering if the point he was about to make would secede him from the arrangement they had made in his office. He momentarily had an image of Javert in farmer’s garb, harvesting crops for the winter, slashing away with his scythe as if he were exacting punishment on stalks of wheat. It was not an amusing enough image to make him smile out of place.

“Would you have agreed to my resignation?” Javert asked, and Valjean knew it was not a rhetorical question. He could not lie, but he did not know how to answer honestly. Once again, he measured his answer so he would not invoke any unwanted behavior.

“Had I not given myself away so easily, and had I not known you would force me to either fix myself to the law or to you, then I would have wanted you to keep your position. I would have offered you a promotion as recognition for your work,” Valjean replied. ‘And not as some sort of dowry so you could leave me be,’ he thought.

Javert appeared disappointed. “You would’ve remained kind, then. I would’ve remained in the service of a criminal. How fair would that outcome have been, I wonder?”

Valjean did not answer him. He had only wanted Javert to provide a clear and direct answer, but was unsure that hurrying him would help. The more Javert continued, the more he seemed to be speaking aloud to himself and gathering his thoughts.

“It is almost too much to bear knowing that I have forsaken my principles so that a convict can continue to run his town; that an unlawful man can provide refuge to those who have trespassed against the law and ally himself with them; that he has overcome the law and not accounted for his crime; that somehow I have found myself wanting you—a wanted man…”

Valjean shivered at the change in tone. It was deep now, poised for something Valjean did not want. If he could, he would have willed himself to becoming something like a ghost, and float away from the stagecoach, away and beyond the fields leading to Montfermeil. He conjured up the Bishop’s Palace, made himself mentally walk and revisit the halls—it took his mind off of what he thought was the inevitable.

“Nobody changes in their ways, least of all me. I would never stoop to be unfair, and yet I am sitting on a bench with a convict, now a man of prestige, and we are sitting together as if we are upright men. We are sitting together as if we are both good men doing good things. I have kissed you and called you ‘my good bear’ as if it was an endearment—it _was_ an endearment. I struggle with using ‘ _Vous_ ’ and not ‘ _tu_ ’ when conversing with you or about you. When I came to you in the hospital, I removed my hat out of respect for your lady-friend, who has escaped due law. I would have believed that you planted this craving in me…”

Javert trailed off in his speech. He left Valjean to his own thoughts just as Valjean left Javert to his. He had removed his gaze from Valjean and looked at the bench across from them, staring at it with such intent as if it had committed a grave crime. Valjean mentally placed himself in the Bishop’s dining hall—he was sharing a meal with the Bishop and his sister and their housekeeper, and they all looked upon each other with friendliness and ease. He was safe, he was sound, and he was _free_.

Valjean tentatively picked up the coconut and went back to the task of fixing it up for Cosette. It was an easy enough task, now that he had his faculties about him and did not shake so much, and was finished soon after. He took to looking out into the fields, trying hard not to envy all of God’s creation that could be considered free from anguish.

It was Javert who broke the second silence.

“Monsieur le Maire, I accept your offer of promotion in lieu of our other agreement,” he spoke as one not tainted with desire.

Valjean turned to him with near reverence, like he was looking at a holy icon. Goodness persisted, had prevailed. It turned a man away from lust and led him back to duty.

“You would do this? You would, really?”

“Yes.”

“Then you have done right, my friend. I will see to it that you are justly rewarded,” Valjean proclaimed.

Javert turned to him, the look on his face so grim that the hopeful look Valjean gave him was immediately snuffed out.

“I will not have you refer to me as friend, and I would not have my decision referred to as just good. It is not merciful—it is impartial. It is not pitiable—it is merited. I tempered my flame so I could think clearly, so that I could judge you using my head. And I judge that if we were to embark on something more physical that it would cause undue problems for us both. So, yes, I agree to this promotion. Now, let us carry out the rest of our journey in silence.”

Valjean could only nod in agreement. There were no more words between them as Javert had demanded, and Valjean was more than glad this time, happy almost, to concede.

***

It was nearing late afternoon when Valjean heard a strange sound. He turned to see Javert staring down at his fists, his cudgel settled in his lap, and his hat placed on the bench across from him. The strange sound was a slow exhalation of breath that ended in something like a growl. Something was disturbing him.

“Monsieur Inspector?”

“I never wanted you as the man you were in Toulon like I wanted you as the man you are now. You are a false man, yet I still want you, the man you have become.”

Valjean let out an irritated breath at this admission. “We have moved past this.”

Something heavy and warm settled on his knee. He looked down and saw that Javert had placed his hand there. Valjean gently pried it off, but in turn had the removing hand clasped in two. One large hand moved down to Valjean’s thick wrist, and the other threaded through his fingers and placed it directly on top of Javert’s lap. Valjean looked in horror at the one hand running its fingers slowly to-and-fro between his. It felt much too intimate—as if Javert were in awe of him. It did not take much to wrest it free.

“When I came here, when I conducted my investigation, I dreamt of these hands. How you…”

“Stop.”

“…Used them on me, and how you entreated me…”

“ _Stop_.”

“…to do the same to you. And everywhere you touched it would be like both fire and ice, and when I did the same to you…”

“For the love of Christ, _stop_.”

The words were hissed out between Valjean’s teeth. It was not a shout, but it steadied in the air as if it were a trumpet-call breaking through the stillness of an early morning. The wheels of the stagecoach still spun, and the driver had presumably not heard anything suspicious.

“I _can’t_.”

With that, Javert surged forward and grasped Valjean by the collar. This distance was not completely closed—a moment hung between them where they locked eyes, and each saw in the other a fear and uncertainty of what was to follow. Then, sure enough, Javert finally closed the distance and began kissing Valjean in earnest. He started with Valjean’s mouth, and then set a trail of kisses along his jaw until he got to his throat. He ceased to kiss him then, preferring instead to nuzzle against his throat. The hand at Valjean’s collar moved along his chest—surprisingly succinct touches that ended with an arm around his shoulder and a push forward so that he was molded to Javert.

Valjean, in his haste to remove Javert from him with minimal harm, placed a hand between their chests and another on the back of his neck. At this touch, Javert let out a shuddering breath, the sensation of it already too much for him. Valjean began to push him away, and was nearly amazed when Javert made no attempt to smelt himself to Valjean again. He was not going to test his strength, and this brought a minimal amount of relief.

“Just one night.” His voice was husky and desperate. It disconcerted Valjean to see a man of such constraint talk so wantonly. He hated the fact he was the source of this.

“No.”

“If I cannot have you now in this carriage, then let me have you for one night, and I will never ask this of you again.”

“I will not allow either of us to debase ourselves in such a manner.”

“We could have one night that we will never speak of again. That one night to know each other, to understand what so many others already understand.”

“You should have someone who wants to understand with you, then.”

“I would have that person be you.”

“It is against the law to have those who are unwilling.”

A terrible laugh was wrought out of Javert then. It was a laugh fraught with bemusement, disbelief, and something akin to madness, and thankfully brief. It was not a joyful laugh because a joyful laugh would have made Valjean want to take part in it. This laugh had the likeness of a catapult, as it caused Valjean to finally push Javert away from him in sheer terror. Javert let himself be pushed away and continued to laugh.

“You would…You would…”

He willed himself to calm down, and then turn back to Valjean. “You would speak to me of law again and use it against me?”

Valjean only stared at him. Javert had to calm himself more before speaking again, lest he brought attention from the outside.

“I will not have you if you are unwilling, but I will have you all the same. I expect you to make yourself wanting of me. Do you not have what _you_ want? Do you still not have your town, and the adoration of your people, and the results of your toil? Do you not want me to have this promotion, which has been given to me because I have been _just_? Then give me this one night to have you.”

It took every ounce of internal strength, in addition to the grace of God, for Valjean not to force himself on Javert and throw him out of the stagecoach. As Javert chided him, he felt his fear coalesce into a fitful anger, set to be released at any moment Valjean chose. Instead, he chose to focus on Javert’s collar, and noticed how it had become loose during their prior debacle. It was a sight he was unused to seeing. Inspector Javert—Monsieur Inspector—the envy of the most perfunctory, his countenance and dress as routine as his patrols, as mechanical as a perfectly wound clock was disheveled and reduced to near primal form. It almost provoked pity in Valjean.

“Well?”

Valjean sat up and sighed. Selling himself for one night, for the good of the townsfolk and their industry, for the good of a child reunited with a despairing mother…

“One night to do as you say?”

“And only one.”

Valjean placed a hand on his own neck. “Your collar, it is…”

Javert made no move to fix it. “So it is.”

“And it will just be this one night?”

“Would you prefer more than one?”

Valjean closed his eyes in disgust. “One is enough.”

“Then we will be sated for only one night.”

At that finality, Javert went to fixing his collar. His fingers worked at the cloth in an automatic fashion. In the meantime, Valjean picked up the coconut that had been tossed to the ground during their argument and turned it over in his hands. When he looked up, Javert had finished with his collar and held his hat in his hands, placing it ritualistically on his head. He looked at Valjean, but made no move to touch him any further. His tone was lecherous enough.

“And come that night, I will be sure to be kind.”

***

When they arrived at Montfermeil and exited the stagecoach, the driver had looked at Valjean in amusement. “What did you say back there?”

“What was that?” Valjean asked.

“On the way here,” the driver explained. “You said something that made the inspector laugh. No one has ever thought him capable of such a thing.”

“Ah, that,” Valjean said. “It was a terrible joke.”

“Would you care to share it?”

“It seems I have forgotten it already.”

***

The child had clearly gone through less than adequate care, and the inn was clearly being run with less than that.

For the few hours or so they were there, Valjean and Javert spent fewer words and even fewer glances at each other. They took turns watching Cosette in shifts. The first shift had Javert barely watching her while he took note of the various goings-on in the inn. He reached inside his greatcoat and traced the papers he carried with him for reports. It ended when Valjean came back with a change of clothes for three small children. They exchanged places with a knowing look, and then Javert took his leave.

When he came back, his gift came in the form of a police unit.

***

Valjean was the one who had to handle three sets of tiny distressed hands clutching him about the legs and waistcoat while Javert conducted himself accordingly with the local law enforcement. A fourth distressed bundle was passed to him as the inn was searched.

Unfortunately, a hospice had only just been approved for construction, which meant they would be headed back to Montreuil-sur-mer in a stagecoach full of crying children. Justice and mercy had produced a minor hiccup in their partnership, it seemed. More money was spent on necessities for the baby and food for the children, and then the rest of the journey was spent in near-exhaustion. Valjean was the only one somewhat consoled by this arrangement. It meant he did not have to brace himself if Javert were to make another advance.

Valjean and Cosette were the only two to handle the infant. As it was, they were the only two who could placate it. Éponine was the one to find the coconut with straw. Still upset over her parents’ forceful removal, she attempted to throw it out the window, only to fail when it ended up hitting Azelma upside her head. A good twenty minutes was spent on trying to placate both Azelma and Gavroche, who had just settled down only to be startled by his sister’s wailing.

Javert, who in his many years of experience did not have to handle more than two children for more than a quarter of an hour, was rendered incapable of restoring order. Instead, he picked up the coconut and threw it out the window a second, successful time.

***

Montreuil-sur-mer had an established hospice that took care of its orphaned and abandoned children and was kept in good condition. Éponine and Azelma were well-fed and otherwise good-tempered; they would soon be placed in a good home where they would be wanted, adored, and well-fed for many years to come. Gavroche, once restored to better health, would be placed in a good home as well.

Cosette, though not with a complete family, at least would have someone who was an actual relation. The reunion, however, was not as sweet as Fantine would’ve wanted it.

“My dear, my darling, what have they done to you?” Fantine asked while fretting over her daughter. Cosette was unsure where to begin. She could not comprehend the near-ghoulish form before her now, without hair and without two front teeth.

“They have been dealt with accordingly,” Javert partially answered for her. “Your child is in your protection now.”

“But why has she come to me like this?”

Cosette distracted her. “Mama, you have lost your teeth, like me?”

She opened her mouth wide, as if in a smile, and pointed to the many gaps in her mouth. “Will they come back?”

“Yours will, Cosette,” Fantine replied, masking her concern with delight. “And what pretty teeth they will be. Like pearls.”

***

Valjean and Javert walked through the foyer without any pretenses. There would be no touching or grappling in the doorway.

“A week from today, 7 o’clock, will that suffice for you?” Javert asked in lieu of a farewell.

“Unless something was to chance…”

“Yes or no, Monsieur le Maire?”

“I would prefer we never meet under such circumstances.”

“You would also prefer to be an adored man, a man who would not be kept behind bars.”

“I would prefer to actually have a say in this.”

“And you did,” Javert said with conviction. “During our little excursion, where restraint was rather hard to come by, sitting so close to you—I believe you had agreed to temporarily give yourself to me. I am giving us a week to gather our bearings.”

He stooped low then, brushing his arm across Valjean’s shoulders as if he were a friend offering undue comfort. There would be no more pretenses. Another hand splayed across his chest, pressing firmly, though certainly not enough to physically subdue Valjean in any way. He did not go about stopping Javert, however. Surrender had temporarily won over resistance. A kiss was placed to his temple, another on his cheek. He tilted his head away when a third was pressed to the corner of his mouth. The hand on his chest moved lower, settling on his heart in an almost-affectionate manner before making itself into a claw and pressing inwards. It was as if he meant to reach inside to stop the rapid trouncing of his heart, only letting it beat when he afforded the privilege. 

“Consider this week another of my little mercies,” Javert whispered. “You play the part of the beloved philanthropist, and I’ll play the part of the subordinate, and by weeks end I will have you. I have lied for you before in court, and will lie for you again for the sake of your town. In turn, you will lie with me. Do not forget that I said I will be kind.”

Valjean closed his eyes in defeat. “One night.” This answer was preferable to saying yes.

The final kiss for the evening was placed again on his temple, a lascivious brush of lips that made both men tremble. Hands lingered over him before drawing away.

“I will be seeing you then,” Javert promised. He made no other move to touch Valjean. No ‘my good bear’ came forth, no gaze was held longer than necessary, and none of his steps could be considered nimble as he walked past the foyer and into the streets.

Valjean began to scratch along his face and chest with vigor once he was out of sight. He thought about drafting a recommendation before retiring to bed, but decided against it.

***

The following day had Valjean place himself utmost in his role as Madeleine, but during that time, he rendered a portion of it to standing in a toy shop, contemplating on which doll to buy. Cosette had provoked in him a great feeling of tenderness that went beyond the genuine compassion he held for those less fortunate. It was hard to place, and he wondered, if he had in a different plane of time felt such a need to fret over and coddle. He felt himself wanting to secure her friendship just as he did Fantine’s.

He approached the shopkeeper with his purchase, but then remembered Éponine and Azelma’s despondent faces, the infant Gavroche with his crying red face sticking out from a bundle of rags.  He bought two more dolls and a bonnet, and made his way to the hospice.

The sight of Valjean laden with gifts amused the nun who led him to Éponine and Azelma. “They still very much want to be with their parents, but they haven’t caused too much trouble. They have just begun playing with the others.”

Valjean made an immediate comparison between the two girls and Cosette and evoked the ride back. How they tended to ignore Cosette, and tended not to include her in their play, minimal as it was. It was, he felt, unfair how they treated her, and wanted to remedy that.

The girls took kind to the dolls that were offered, and were courteous to Valjean with a little prompting from the nun. Nevertheless, there was still something of contempt in the way they looked at him.

“Perhaps I should bring Cosette here and all three of you could play together?” he suggested.

Éponine immediately recoiled at the thought. “We cannot play with her. She is not fit to play with.”

“How come?”

“Because mother said so, and she’s right. She doesn’t know how to play properly anyway.”

“Maybe you could teach her to play properly,” Valjean suggested. “A girl like that needs girls like you to help her play, perhaps even befriend her.”

Éponine was still very much reluctant at this suggestion. “But mother always said she would make us dirty and sick, and steal our toys when we weren’t looking.”

Valjean smiled sadly at her mother’s influence over her. “I’ll see to it that she does not.”

He was reluctant to tell Fantine what had transpired at the hospice when he came to visit her.

“Cosette has been asking for the others; I cannot fathom why. I look at her and know she has suffered—why would I let her go and play with such tiny scoundrels?” Fantine asked. She was not yet able to sit up without difficulty, but her voice was lively with anger.

“It is not the children’s fault they treated Cosette in such a way. They were governed by a bad influence; they would like to play with her now,” Valjean said.

“I would prefer she find better friends,” Fantine countered.

They looked over at Cosette, who was currently sitting a ways away from Fantine’s bed. She had placed the doll before her as if it were a shrine to the Virgin Mary, and looked upon it as such. It was clear she had never been given gifted anything so precious before.

“She doesn’t even know how to play like a little girl should,” Fantine continued. “Even I knew how to content myself when I was her age; I had time to play as a girl.”

Cosette was aware she was being discussed. She looked over at her mother and held her gaze for several seconds, her eyes large with a strange sort of amazement.

“She looks at me with fascination, not love. It’s as if she was never aware she had me as a mother,” Fantine said with sadness. “I want to constantly keep her in my arms, but she only seems to want to look at me as if I were a fish in a glass bowl.”

“You will need to give it time; she will come around and be devoted to you like a loving daughter should.”

Fantine let out a sigh. Her face was still sunken; the shadows in the hollow of her cheekbones looking like a grayish rogue. Out of sympathy, Valjean reached up and adjusted her cap.

“I hope so, Monsieur Madeleine.”

They watched Cosette for a little while longer, who would look over, and be met with twin smiles. She took this as encouragement and would touch the doll, hold its hand, sing little songs like the ones she sang to Gavroche. This enlivened Fantine and made her change the subject.

“I don’t receive many visitors, save for you and Sister Simplice, but I don’t mind,” she said.

“I hope I do not make bad company then,” he joked mildly.

“You are preferable to…others.”

“You mean…”

“That man still scares me. To see him take his hat off for me and attempt to be courteous scared me even more. It did not feel right, though I don’t know much about him, so I can’t say for certain if he is totally incapable of kindness. How did you stand to be in the same coach with him for several hours?”

Valjean prayed that he did not look pale or troubled at her words. He wanted to trust her as a friend should, but was unprepared for telling her everything. He steeled himself before answering. He had been good at acting thus far.

“It was a process,” he explained. “It’s strange how men who do good disagree on how to go about doing good works, and then disagree on how to…be paid back for doing good.”

“You don’t find him an easy man to talk to,” Fantine said. “But you had such courage facing him when you defended me, and it seems now even his mentioning makes you restless.”

So he had failed at hiding himself. Now was his turn to change the subject.

“Cosette should be enrolled in school very soon…”

***

The next day, Valjean sat down to draft a recommendation that took him the better part of the morning and the afternoon. Several times he found himself commending Javert for his services whilst insisting those services could be put to better use in a town that was more prone to criminal activity. A recommendation was one thing, the power to enforce a mandatory transfer was even better. He could have him terminated, he thought, but then what else would he lose in the process? Having him arrested for improper conduct would only truly work if he still thought of him as Madeleine. It seemed that securing his position as mayor was the same as putting a dragon into a light sleep after an arduous battle. Terminating Javert would be like waking it up and having to fight it all over again.

By the time he was finished, the blotter had more ink than the inkwell, and crossness visited his heart.

***

After Cosette had been enrolled at the schoolhouse, Valjean set time out of his day to take her to the hospice and visit Éponine and Azelma.

Their play-date had started off in an odd fashion. Éponine had forgotten what Cosette had looked like freshly scrubbed and washed, Azelma even more so. All three were now equals, and all three were at a loss as to how to go about playing as equals.

For a while, all three stared out a window of the dormitory that stayed at, and periodically one would point at something of interest, and the other two would say a few words about it. This was not play.

Valjean thought to turn around and leave them be, but then Cosette mentioned something about the garden. “I don’t see many flowers.”

“We should plant some,” Valjean suggested. All three turned towards him expectantly.

Later, when all four had dirtied their knees and caked their fingers in soil, Valjean could tell a positive change had taken place between how all three girls interacted. For him, it was a blessed distraction, introducing them to gardening and helping them forge a friendship at the same time.

One of the holes dug contained a large worm. The three little ones were mutually fascinated by its movements and giggled whilst finding it disgusting. When it stopped, Cosette was brave enough to poke it and start it moving again. This produced more giggles, and when it stopped its movements a second time, Cosette would again be the one to poke it with her finger to make it move, making all three laugh even more. Éponine and Azelma found all this delightful.

“Hehehe…again!” Azelma demanded with glee.

“Yes, again,” Éponine agreed.

Valjean derived much enjoyment watching them. How easy it is for children rebuild bridges after having them burnt for so long. How easy it is to start and restart friendships without much in the way of negotiation. By the end of the day, all three were bouncing with excitement over seeing each other again.

***

‘Two more days,’ Valjean thought. He had two more days before he gave himself over for one night. But then what of the nights to follow? He could no longer trust Javert to keep his word, what if he pressed for more?

He couldn’t remember the last time he was in need of friendly company. To sit down and hold discourse, wax philosophy, or render one’s heart open to allow in some advice or reassurance was something he developed no need for. He was finding himself in despair of finding someone to relate to now, but he wasn’t terribly sure about the one whom he thought could be his friend.  

All the same, he went to see Fantine as a friend, and not as a savior.

“You look better every time I see you,” Valjean complimented.

“It helps to have those that are kind,” Fantine complimented in return. “And it helps to have Cosette near me again.”

Cosette looked up at this and smiled. She sat next to Fantine by her bedside and busied herself with a pair of stockings.

“Are those for you?” Valjean asked.

“They are for ‘Ponine,” she replied. “I had to knit stockings for her back at the inn, but she wants to start knitting for herself. I’m only starting a little bit for her.”

Disapproval passed over Fantine’s face. It was clear she did not quite like her daughter still serving those who had treated her badly.

“You do not have to do anything you don’t want to. Not anymore. Play instead,” Fantine suggested. Her suggestion came off as a demand.

Cosette slowly lowered the stockings into her lap. “But I want to do this,” she said with a slight waver in her voice.

Fantine was at a loss as to what to say. She didn’t want to demand anything of Cosette, but all the same she would rather have seen her daughter play rather than work for others.

“I want to teach her, Mama. I asked her and she said yes.”

“You will make a fine teacher,” Fantine approved. They shared a smile between each other, and when Cosette held her mother’s gaze her eyes did not comprise curiosity, but love.

Despite the look exchanged between the two, Valjean wondered if he had not been giving them enough time to reacquaint themselves. It had been several years since they had seen each other last, and it wouldn’t be right to tamper with such a bond.  

“I will come back another time?”

Fantine turned to him and spoke like a hostess finding out she had overlooked an important guest. “So soon? Come, stay longer. We would like you very much to remain here, unless there is important business to attend to. Monsieur Madeleine has much to do on a daily basis, Cosette, and here he spends his days with us. How kind of him to do so.”

“I would rather you two become familiar. A mother is an important thing to keep,” Valjean said.

“Stay a while longer, monsieur?” Cosette asked.

“I think I will leave that up to the mother,” Valjean replied.

“Then I propose you stay,” Fantine said.

He only stayed long enough to tell them of the living arrangements he would make for them, the possibility of re-employment. Neither Fantine nor Cosette inquired or politely interrogated him for further details. The prospect of a home was enough for them for the time being.

He left, feeling somehow guilty for visiting. He felt he had intruded on the company of angels, who were only too happy to keep him. There were many questions he wanted to ask of Fantine; he knew her story, and in his current agony, wanted to share his. Two trespassers of the law, two martyrs, sharing their stories and finding solace in their similarities seemed a fitting start for a friendship. It was what he wanted more than anything in that moment, yet he did not want it if it would take away from the bond to be shared between mother and child.

***

The next day had Valjean thinking again of the position he had been placed in. He had gone six days without seeing Javert, and this pleased him greatly and filled him with dread at the same time. His moments of reprieve during the week came when he visited Fantine and Cosette in his infirmary, and even then he wondered if he was being watched somehow. He did not burden himself with memorizing Javert’s patrols at any point when he played the part of a respectable man, and he did not go out of his way to find out after he was revealed. Nevertheless, whenever he had to head out, he avoided any buildings related to law or to the court, believing that avoiding such buildings decreased any chances of running into Javert.

Throughout the day, Valjean was in a mental fit. ‘Isn’t my body more disposable than my soul? Why is it that it is too much to be asked to lay with another? I have already sinned by lying to these good people, to myself. I have driven another to lie, though he would ask for something despicable in return. Why go on the run for the sake of my flesh? What good is chastity to me? I have deceived though it was only to become more honest, so in turn, it would be right to be had. Everything will be fine after that.’

So it was decided: he would have his respectability and his security, and his new soul would finally overcome that of the old one.  Everything would be accounted for, and he could live out the rest of his days an upright man. He had founded a new life; his soul had been purged from perdition in exchange for silver, and though he was still wanted by the law, he was not wanted by a conscience that cried out to be clear—there was no need for him to reveal himself anymore ever since Champmathieu was set free. His conscience was already clear—it would just have to temporarily accommodate to the ministrations of another. Then the figurative shackles would be off again, and he could go back to doing good deeds.

But then, what of Javert? How would he be able to function afterwards? There could be no conceivable way for him to let Valjean be. Valjean could not conceive that what they agreed upon would last for a night. Valjean was sure of it—he would not be hounded so that he would be brought to justice, though he would have to make his bedroom as impersonal as a jail cell.

“I am trapped either way,” Valjean whispered to himself. He wished he had composed himself better in his office that one day, willed his heart and his head to be as still as stone, and turn himself in as the honest man he should have been. He wished for Javert to be a man not hampered by desire (at least not for him, and for the desire to be handled adequately). He was built for duty, a man whose onus could be sure of. Now he was rendered corrupt with longing, and this change in Javert’s principles proved terrifying to Valjean. He could not have the man in such a state.

All he could do now, it seemed, was to futilely temper himself like a groom dreading a consummation with a deplorable betrothed. He shuddered at any involuntary image that came to mind: a mouth at his ear, an arm thrown across his chest, a hand reaching for his underclothes. And then he wondered: was this how Fantine had felt when she became a woman of the night? Did she pace and fret about; did she drive away images that would make her recoil and flinch? Did she constantly have to numb her thinking, render herself incapable of feeling and of _being_ as she dressed for the streets?

It was too much. He would have to visit Fantine earlier than his usual time.

“Monsieur, if you don’t mind my saying, I think something is really troubling you,” Fantine said once they were alone and exchanged perfunctory greetings. Cosette had gone to the school, so it would only be the two of them.

“Madam, you are correct in your thinking; I am troubled,” Valjean said.

“What is it that is troubling you then?”

He was at another impasse. He could reveal much to her, and open up new avenues, condemn himself even more. He could choose to reveal nothing to her, and remain only partially condemned.

“There is much I know about you, yet there is little you know of me,” Valjean began with a great sigh.

“I know you to be a righteous man who would do well for himself,” Fantine offered, thinking he needed to be pacified.  

“You are familiar with my actions, but not who I am.”

“Then who are you, Monsieur Madeleine?”

Valjean eased himself forward and sat on his knees. He reached out and offered his hand to Fantine, his palm raised upwards as if he were begging for alms. At this gesture, she reached out in turn, looking at him as one would a hurt child. She sensed in him a vast amount of vulnerability, and was almost in fear of any possible admissions on his part. The hands that clasped his were still frighteningly skeletal, and the fingers trembled. They were as pale as polished ivory, yet Valjean would believe them capable of healing the strongest of ailments and reduce the strongest of squalls into a light wind.

“I am a man in need of a friend,” he began. “And a friend is an equal, and I am of the belief that we are similar in many regards.”

“How so, Monsieur Madeleine?” Fantine asked.

“We both committed crimes that were for the benefit of others, we would both tarnish ourselves to lessen their suffering,” Valjean replied. “I am not the honest man you think I am; I had to culture myself to be one.”

Fantine was greatly moved by his statement, and removed her hands from his. Valjean became distraught by this removal, and bowed his head in shame, thinking she now  
thought him contemptible. He was no longer her favorable Monsieur Madeleine, she would no longer hold him in high esteem, and would seek to keep him away from her; he was sure of all of this.

A gentle hand upon his face would cause a solution of gratitude and confusion to thrash about inside him. He looked up to see Fantine’s face was one of kindness and compassion.

“I think no differently of you,” Fantine assured him. “To me you are still good.”

“I am a wanted man, and I should turn myself in, but then I would be compromising everyone’s safety. I would not be able to see you or Cosette ever again.”

“What is wrong with not turning yourself in? No one suspects you, do they? You have done so well for yourself and the people around you, and you seem like such a redeemed man. I would not be surprised if you were pardoned.”

“There would be a small chance of that happening. I doubt it would happen at all, really. But it is not the possibility of not being pardoned that sets me ill at ease.”

He looked at Fantine and expected her to ask more of him. When she did not, he thought about not saying anything else. He could not see himself now as she had been before. He could not make themselves parallel in all regards: her former profession was not the same as his current predicament. She had been in Hell and was making her way to Heaven. That was it, he thought, he could not tell her. He could not stoop so low as to bring her or anybody else down to Hell with him.

“I am troubled because no one else knows about me,” Valjean lied. “And if I am to be your friend, I must be an honest one. Does any of this trouble you?”

“No, it does not,” Fantine replied. “I would very much like to be your friend.”

Her offering did not do much to lessen his guilt and suffering, but in gratitude, he took both frail hands in his and kissed them as if she had.

***

The final day, Valjean carried himself with a vast amount of confidence. For the past week he had tested his resolve, only replenishing it through taking comfort in others. He did not seek to make a fully realized decision until it came to him on the  
morning of the seventh day.

After attending to his mayoral duties for the day, he took out a small key and removed a chest he kept hidden by the mantel. He had had a dream where he held his old knapsack, inspecting it and turning it over in his hands as if he were appraising a diamond. It was sunset, and the light afforded to him revealed a glittering forty sous piece tucked deeply inside. He reached in and took hold of it, and upon lowering the knapsack, was beheld by Petit Gervais. The sunlight turned him into a silhouette, looking more like an eclipse in the shape of a boy. Valjean could not see him clearly, but he knew it was him all the same.

“Monsieur, give me back my coin,” Petit Gervais said in a voice that could have been any child’s, save for his own.

Valjean handed it to him without a word. It was received just as wordlessly, and nothing spectacular or inherently dream-like happened after that. The feeling it provoked in Valjean upon waking up was one of determination, something that no dream of a more spectacular fashion could have done. It had taken him this long to come up with a proper solution, but he was sure it would set things right.

Sure enough, the forty sous piece was trapped in the folds of his knapsack. Together with the silver candlesticks—which were always left out in the open but were still evidence—he placed them on his desk and sat down to write a letter to arrange Fantine and Cosette to be transferred to a home that offered asylum for women and children. The day before, he had been informed that a childless family in the country had agreed to take in Éponine and Azelma and would be arriving within two weeks. He would make sure to visit them before the day was out, preferably with Cosette in tow.

A few more letters of importance were written, the concierge brought him his lunch, and by the early part of the afternoon, he made time to see Fantine. When he arrived, however, she was fast asleep.

“You missed it,” Sister Simplice began to describe. “She insisted on standing up today. I kept telling her that would not do, she is still in recovery. She convinced me, though. Would you believe it, she had me lend her my arm, and I was able to help her stand. She even took a few steps. The Good Lord gave her strength, and then just as easily took it back from her. It was too much—she had to rest.”

From where he stood, he could see Fantine was in a deep sleep, enough to make him walk forward to see if she was breathing. He could see a small mound underneath the bedclothes softly move up and down and knew she was still there. The only part of her that could be seen was her face, which seemed to glow inwardly with a light indicative of a saved soul. Valjean took great pains to memorize it—he would not know if or when he would see her again.

“She is alive and well, just in need of recovery,” Simplice assured him. “Cosette is awake if you wish to see her.”

Cosette, unlike her mother, was lively. As soon as Valjean stepped in the other room to visit her, she hurried up to him and wrapped her tiny hands around one of his own, pulling at his index finger with one hand and his little finger with another. He couldn’t remember the last time a child was so joyous to see him without expecting an offering of money.

“Monsieur, monsieur! It’s been so quiet, and it’s only been me and my doll, have you come to play?” she asked. She whispered her question but could not contain her excitement.

“I was thinking, perhaps, we could visit your friends,” Valjean replied.

That pleased Cosette and she nodded vigorously. On the way to the hospice, she had gone from holding his hand to politely asking him to carrying her. She had not expected him to say yes, and she had not expected to feel such grandeur in being lifted off the ground and carried in someone’s arms. Of the few times she could remember being lifted up, it was to be chastised or threatened by Mme. Thénardier and sometimes the proprietors when they felt they weren’t being served quick enough. She couldn’t remember much being carried by Fantine. It was a welcome change this time, and she had no qualms about putting her arms around her new friend’s neck, and was relieved to find Valjean had no qualms about it either. He only set her down once they neared the hospice.

The attending nun led them to the nursery. “They’ve been looking after their younger brother when they’ve had the chance, so they’re probably there at the moment. I’m sorry to say they’re not looking forward to being placed in a new family—they would much prefer their old one. Éponine keeps asking about them.”

Cosette looked up at Valjean and saw him frown; she wondered if he felt guilty. “Are they really sad right now?” she asked the nun.

“They have been asking for you, so maybe that will hearten them,” the nun replied.

A second nun accosted them. “I found the pitcher of milk. The two new arrivals, they were the ones who pilfered it.”

The first nun let out a small exclamation and looked down at Cosette, as if she could set to rights what had been discovered.

In the nursery, Éponine and Azelma were found in a rather disheartened state. Their heads were bowed, and their arms behind their backs. They looked like little convicts about to be hammered to a chain. There was still milk in the pitcher, but some of it had ended up splashed along their fronts having carried it to the nursery, as well as when they drank of it. They had been left unattended for a great while after being permitted to enter the nursery by one of the more absent-minded attendants, and during that time, had decided between them to fetch one of the milk pitchers that had been delivered that day. The guilty ones gestured wildly at one another, trying to make the other seem more devious. It was Éponine who finally took the blame.

“We just wanted to feed Gavroche; we never get to see him otherwise,” she said.

“That’s what the wet nurses are for,” the first nun explained. “It’s one thing to play like a sister, it’s another to try and feed like a mother. You’re lucky these pitchers have lids and weren’t out in the open for too long.”

Valjean looked over at Gavroche to see his tiny hands cut the air as if engaging it in fisticuffs. In their attempt to feed him, some milk had gathered on his tiny chest and onto the silver of his identification necklace. He was content, if his lack of crying could say anything of how he felt. Éponine and Azelma weren’t exactly near tears themselves, but the whole scene kindled something in Valjean—a memory, a dream more like—enough to make it familiar, but not enough to give it proper shape. Nevertheless, something had been set alight, and Valjean found himself feeling for all three Thénardier children what he had been beginning to feel for Cosette. The inward spark might as well have burned him like a pyre—it was going to be another lost kinship he would miss, come this evening.

“I’ll pay for it,” Valjean offered. He didn’t remember, but when this familiar scene played out before, he was younger, and had been surlier when paying the difference for the milk.

The matter was soon settled, and before the milk could even dry on their clothes, all three girls were at play.

“Look at this,” said Éponine, eager to pull Cosette towards herself. “If you place your finger just so on the baby’s palm, they grab onto it.”

Cosette listened and nodded sagely, but did not tell Éponine it was something she already knew. Back at the inn, when Gavroche’s cries became too shrill, she would sometimes sneak in to where his bassinet was set and placed her chapped finger in his palm, and made up songs she would later sing to her new doll. She felt it best not to bring it up.

***

Valjean did not check to see if Fantine was awake upon coming back. There was a great deal of apprehension occurring inside of him, as if visiting her again would cause him to change his mind. He was ready to follow through with his final decision, and he could not let anyone or anything cause him to change it again.

Even so, when he was left with nothing to do but pace his private quarters, he still considered the options he had left during the small amount of time given to him. He thought about gathering the items he had hidden away the eight years he spent at Montreuil-sur-mer and making his way to the police station; he would make an audience out of the sergeants and the guards and have them lock him away right there. There should be no reason, Valjean thought, to make a personal appeal to Javert when he would only disagree with him. Worse, finally convince him to share a bed.

Yet, Valjean remained pacing, and did not attempt to turn that pacing into a walk that would end once he reached a destination. They would think him a fool, he thought. They would think their mayor had succumbed to too much sympathy and thought himself into a wanted man, someone he thought was worthy of grace and mercy and not derision.

“But they might believe me,” Valjean said aloud to himself. He said it with a great deal of confidence. They would believe him, and he would be put away an honest man, a man who had stayed true to himself.

He had thought the matter settled, and began to reach for the candlesticks and forty sous piece when he thought again that they would not believe him. Perhaps they would think him mad, he thought, and send him away to an asylum. He would’ve told the truth, but he would be sent away as the Mad Mayor, the one who thought himself into a criminal. Valjean couldn’t have that—if he was to be sent away, it would be as who he truly was.

He wanted to curse himself for not utilizing the week he had to come up with a more thorough solution. He was left with having to reason with Javert on his own with no witnesses. There should have been a better way, or so he felt.

***

When Javert finally arrived, it was right before the concierge was to be dismissed for the evening. If she thought anything of the timing, her thoughts were assuaged when he brought forth a ledger from under his arm. She did not need any further clarification and took her leave. Valjean stopped himself from chasing after her.

The walk to Valjean’s personal quarters was not hurried, nor did it give away the intention of the visit. Valjean was strangely polite enough to let Javert in ahead of him, still treating him like a guest in his home.

The room was well-lit for the evening, allowing attention to immediately be drawn to the candlesticks and forty sous piece on the desk. The knapsack, old yellow smock, and metal-tipped walking stick were placed over the chair. Valjean placed himself at a far enough distance between him and Javert and stood in front of his desk as if he was ready to defend it from an attack.

“Javert, I rescind our agreement,” Valjean declared, no longer referring to Javert as Monsieur Inspector. His voice carried a vast amount of courage; one could compare him to a bear poised on its high legs. “I am turning myself in as the wanted convict Jean Valjean.”

Javert was unmoved by Valjean’s behavior. “I know full well who you are. You will not be turned in.”

“I demand you put me away,” Valjean insisted.

“You will not be doing any demanding tonight,” Javert countered. He had not changed his tone or his stance. Valjean was not remiss to what he said, however. A great shudder went through him.

“But you have to close your case now. I have on this table all the evidence that would prove I am the man you have been meaning to put away.”

“I see that. And it looks like you put little thought into your defense. You had a week, and this is what you do? You would seek to make yourself a fool and me an even bigger fool? I was told I was wrong by the Prefecture in Paris, and I went to Arras to tell the court they were wrong as well. I have only been standing in your home for no more than five minutes, and you insist that I take you to the police station so you can be told you are not Jean Valjean a third time?”

“I will not have you become a villain, Javert. You have despised those who would break the law, but you have never stooped so low as to exploit them. You only did what the law asked of you, why change that now?”

Valjean’s tone had softened, but it did not buffer his resolve. He held out his wrists before him, hoping that by the end of this he would be placed in cuffs. “Save us both, Javert. Remain an honest man and stay true to yourself. Place this convict back in prison, so that he may live honestly.”

Javert would not make a move. “Again, I will not have you make any demands of me tonight. You must have put thought into what would happen if I took you to the police station.”

“I have,” Valjean replied. “And I can be sure that I would be sent back to prison.”

“And I can be especially sure that you would not,” Javert countered with equal conviction. “Upon seeing the yellow smock, they would think you had exchanged it with a beggar man so he might have a better coat. The candlesticks—well—those you have always kept in the open. We would be hard-pressed to find anybody who can remember those particular candlesticks, and those who do have passed on. You seem to have forgotten that you have everyone believing you were once a servant of Bishop Myriel’s family. They would look at the forty sous piece and in perplexity say, ‘Yes, Monsieur le Maire, that is a very nice forty sous piece’ as if you were a child trying to pass it off as a banknote.”

“What about the walking stick?” Valjean asked in vain to give himself more time.

Javert became slightly exasperated at this. “Who would care for the walking stick? By this time, they would think you to be mad. Did you not think about that possibility, being sent to an asylum instead?”

“I did.”

“And to think I once thought you cunning, dangerous even. You manage to captivate an entire town, and you can’t even escape from your responsibilities even if you wanted to. I would think that a convict who successfully transforms himself into a gentleman would want to hold onto what he has created for himself.”

“I would think an inspector would do a better job of placing such a convict under arrest once he finds him out.”

“You had a week to turn yourself in. I had trusted that during the week you would not bring yourself to abandon what you worked for, and I was right,” Javert said, not finding Valjean’s critique of him worthy of his irritation. “Guilt could not persuade you to turn yourself in, it seems.”

“Does it not bother you to know that you are serving under a convict? Does it truly not bother you that a thief is posing as a magistrate? What sort of lawful society is that?”

“I have had a week to think about this. My whole life I dedicated myself to upholding the law and protecting society. I was never dissuaded by anyone; you have been the only one who has managed to dissuade me somewhat. Initially I thought you were capable of instilling this in me, but then, I forget I too am a man. I felt a great need to have you, and I felt the best way to have you while still upholding what I feel to be right, was to contain you here. Your town would be your jail cell, and I would be its guard. You would only be able to continue your work if I permitted it. In the end, we would both have what we wanted: you would have your town, and I would have you. You were the only one I would afford this privilege to. Any other criminal would have been dealt with as they should be.”

“This is not just. You cannot have me if I do not want to be had.”

“What other option do you have? You will not be sent to prison, and I will not be moved to leave until this night is over.”

“Javert, I mean it. I will not have you become a villain. I do not hate you, but I am prepared to use force if I have to. I spent all day arranging for this. My wealth is to be distributed among the poor, and my friend and her daughter are to be accounted for. I will not let my plans be sullied.”

“I was hoping I could persuade you to not consider using your strength as an option. I suppose I was silly to think that,” Javert said. Valjean hoped what he said was an admission of defeat.

“You have already been denied who you are twice. You would seek to be denied a third time?”

Valjean again held out his wrists. “I would.”

In three strides, Javert was right next to him, nearly on top of him. Valjean was not scared.

“And if they deny you a third time?”

“No matter. I will have remained true to who I am.”

When the handcuffs were placed around his wrists, his body sought to remember what it meant to be apprehended and contained. It was easy to slip back into such a role, and his mind no longer had to accommodate any new attempt at becoming someone with high esteem. This was familiar to Valjean, and he gladly accepted the familiarity.

Javert did not seek to test Valjean’s strength, but he did make one last suggestion. “The station is far, but your bed is right here. You do not have to abandon anything.”

“I will not stay here and abandon myself.”

Javert began to lead him out the door after gathering up the evidence on the table. “Let us go then, before I change my mind,” he said.

“You are doing the right thing,” Valjean commended him as they walked to the foyer.

“Let us hope those at the station think so too,” Javert said in return.

The night outside was dark and cloudy, and the sliver of moon from the week before had gone dark. Only streetlamps and lanterns placed in windows would offer them light. His resolution was beginning to diminish, and Valjean began to doubt if he would be taken by his word. That was all he wanted and prayed for while on the way to the station—to exchange everything he worked for, every arrangement that he had once thought ordained by God, just so he could be believed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don’t feel like I should be thanking you guys for reading so much as I should be apologizing for making what is possibly the worst Choose-Your-Own-Adventure story in the world. So, with that all being said, I’m sorry and…
> 
> *ties blindfold around head, lights up cigarette, drumroll*
> 
> No, but in all seriousness, if this sucked the big one, please tell me and why. I do not mind any and all critique, it is very much appreciated. Admittedly, I did not do much research when it came to 19th century workings (the whole taking all the kids back to M-sur-M for one when Javert is technically out of his jurisdiction? Would that even apply? And would M-sur-M have a hospice around this time—I should actually know this???), so if there came a point where you read any of this and thought, “Wait, WHAT?” then I don’t blame you. Just let me know where it was. This applies to not just historical accuracy, this applies to anything that I just wrote. I mean, Jesus God, I laughed for ten straight minutes after writing the ‘Éponine-hits-Azelma-with-a-coconut’ scene and was sobbing into my hands by the end of it. And then the whole ‘Valjean wouldn’t be surrendering himself to the law, it would be in the BEDROOM oh no what’s a 50 something year-old virgin who’s built like a bear supposed to do short of kicking him in the nuts’ conundrum still causes me to laugh just thinking about it. So, don’t think I’ll get overly defensive or anything. I’m down for a good critique. 
> 
> *SHOT*

**Author's Note:**

> *SPOILER ALERT* Valjean is really Robojean and punches Javert in the dick with a rocket. He escapes, but Javert recovers. “Lord let me find him,” he begins to sing. “That I may see him PULVERIZED BY A FUCKING METEOR SHOWER!!!!!” Meteors then proceed to fall all around and onto Robojean. All seems lost until Ponpon shows up in his car and runs over Javert and several other townspeople. Ponpon gets out and together with his mustachioed baby friend, slap the SHIT out of Javert. He is defeated. Robojean is helped into Ponpon’s car and they all drive away to Arras. “Thank you Ponpon-chan,” he whispers as he slips into unconsciousness. Squeedly 90s guitar music starts up and the credits roll. Everything was part of an episode of an Arm Joe shonen anime adaptation. Sorry. *END SPOILER ALERT*
> 
> This was originally posted on the kink meme, edited and proofread for AO3. The prompt called for Frollo!Javert, more specifically to have Javert go all “crazy repressed boner virgin Frollo” on Madeleine upon finding out he’s Valjean. I am so sorry for all of this.


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